


Thorns

by detergent



Series: Two Fires [3]
Category: Flameborn (Multiverse), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Codpieces are Important, F/M, Finwë's New Clothes, Implied/Referenced Incest, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detergent/pseuds/detergent
Summary: Míriel, still upset that Finwë broke off their nesting relationships with Palcë and Indis, sends Finwë a gift made by her tremendously-skilful hands and makes her feelings known. Will Finwë be able to turn things around?
Relationships: Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Palcë (OMC)/Indis
Series: Two Fires [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807453
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> The actual working title of this is "Finwë's New Codpiece" but this is the internet and we should be serious.

"Come, you may all see," Míriel reached into her basket and pulled out some folded pieces of clothing from within. She and Indis had met on the pathway to the bower where they enjoyed sewing and embroidering while the other noble ladies worked on their own projects as their handmaidens sang and made music or told tales to them that they made up on the spot. The flowering vines that made the ceiling and roof of the bower were loaded with buds again, promising to lavish the space with wondrous perfume and iridescent splendour once more as the late spring slowly melted into early summer.

"You have finished them all?" Indis smiled, which caused Míriel's mouth to quirk and then curve in response.

"Oh, I have," her friend replied. 

She had begun weaving the peerless cloth the day Indis and Palcë had moved their bed from the dwelling she and Finwë shared with them. She had placed her loom outside in the sunshine and sang as she worked both to drown out the sound of the mallets disassembling the great bed carved with songbirds and flowers and to let Indis and Palcë know how much she would miss them. She sang laments and wished her singing would stop them or change Finwë's mind on children, kingship, and things she quietly believed at any other time, should not be asked of that one loved. For, even if she remained with Finwë, she did not believe in destroying his friendship with his brother and his brother's mate. So as she had worked, she had made her feelings known in something like a roundabout fashion and knew she was heard and understood when Palcë had come past her in the parade of men carrying pieces of the bed and set the piece he was carrying on the ground for a moment to wipe his already dry brow. He had given her a long, soft look but said nothing and soon hefted the portion of bedframe back onto his shoulder and had walked silently down the path to his new dwelling on the other side of the settlement.

The cloth had been dyed the pale blue of a winter's sky. Míriel had spun the thread herself, dyed it herself, and wove it into cloth. She had cut her fine cloth and stitched the garments as well. Each coloured thread in the embroidery she had also spun and dyed before making images that seemed alive on the cloth. Now she held the garments in her lap as Indis waited and the noble ladies of the court gathered to see what wonder Míriel had wrought for her husband.

"First, here is the long tunic," she shook it out and the ladies gasped- Míriel had embroidered the chest of the garment with branchlets of creamy peach blossoms so real that some exclaimed that they could smell their scent. Around the cuffs, a whirl of peach petals and leaves blew as if having fallen from their homes on the front of the robes. On the bottom hem, a few more petals rested amongst bending blades of green grass. 

"Look!" exclaimed Niquissë, gesturing at the hem. "It is a feather of the purple finch!"

The ladies gasped and began to look for other treasures along the hem. 

"A ladybird!"

"Oh my, a single strand of silver hair! My lady, this is so exquisite!"

Míriel smiled and thanked them.

"It is a treasure," Indis squeezed her arm. She was pleased that it seemed that Míriel was still able to create although, she was still very bitter beneath the surface about how Finwë had destroyed their mating. She helped Míriel to fold the tunic and watched as her friend produced a camise of wisps so fine that it might have been spun from the morning fog. The pattern in the fine, soft cloth echoed the peach blossom theme, its wonder laying mostly in how delicately it has been crafted. 

"Oh," sighed Lúsindis, "I could never hope to spin and weave so. You have tried to teach me by my hands lack the skill."

"Hush," Míriel felt a twinge of upset at the open praise made from lowering another. "Who excels you in mirror-work? Did you not spangle your husband's cloak? It is the envy of the warriors, I've heard it said."

Lúsindis bowed her head for a moment and looked up, eyes sparkling like the small mirrors she used in her handiwork. "Thank you, my lady."

Indis received the garment and refolded it, marvelling how her fingers sank into material that was so soft, she could not be sure of when she began feeling it. It left the warmth of sunshine glowing on her fingers.

"Trousers," she shook them out so they might be admired. These were a darker shade than the long tunic but still harmonious with it. The peach blossom motif continued, blossoms scattered in the grass, around the ankles of the garment. She then took out the most lavishly-embroidered piece yet, displaying a belt like a peach orchard in bloom, shining through the muted light of a foggy morning. Dew coalesced on leaves, shining in droplets that looked wet to the touch. Many ribbons in shades of blue stretched from either end of the embroidered panel and would make a beautiful cascade from Finwë's waist, should he choose to display it by eschewing his cloak.

Indis carefully coiled the belt after it was handed to her and placed it on top of the pile of clothing she had accumulated in her lap.

"Oh yes... the codpiece," Míriel chuckled and produced one last piece from where it had been hidden in a fold of her skirt. 

When Indis saw it, she couldn't help but laugh. The same exquisite care that her friend had lavished upon every other piece was evident in the construction and embroidery of the codpiece down to the nearly-invisible stitches that held it together. The silken ribbons shone, flowers blossomed on the pouch but they were not peach blossoms at all. Indis pressed her hand to her mouth in an attempt to strangle her laughter.

"Hawthorn blossoms!" she sorted, unable to restrain herself.

"So lovely though," exclaimed one of the lesser ladies.

"But such thorns. So sharp!" added Niquissë with a laugh and a smirk.

"But it is a tree of _love_ ," Indis snorted again.

"Indeed, indeed," agreed her friend. "Shall we not wrap these properly and send them to Finwë?"

The ladies stepped outside and cut some of the early climbing roses from the wall of the bower while a handmaiden was sent running to fetch a nice piece of silk from Míriel and Finwë's dwelling. When the handmaid returned, Míriel smoothed each piece and tucked the lovely flowers and greenery into each piece, genuinely hoping that Finwë would like what she had wrought even though there was a hidden message within that spoke her deepest feelings. She tied the parcel with an ornamental knot and had two knights summoned from the Hall where Finwë, though not yet king, held court all the same. 

"Please take these directly to your lord," she told them. "He has been too occupied as of late and he needs a break. Suggest that he take one and that he open this immediately."

The knights appeared at the doorway during a lull in the conversation. Finwë looked up from where he sat at the head of the great table and saw one of the men held a parcel tied in a piece of silk he recognised. The other lords turned to see what they had brought. Míriel often sent gifts to her husband to remind him to take time for himself as he was inclined to work harder and harder as the orc problem, not to mention the problem of Melkor, their creator loomed. Palcë sat at his right side, one arm draped on the back of his chair, deep in thought. He turned his head and saw the knights with the parcel and briefly frowned. He did not care to be present while Míriel's latest gift for his brother was delivered but he could not escape. 

"Lord, your lady-wife sends you this and suggests you take a moment to open it." 

Finwë stood, smiling. He pushed back his chair and crossed to the knights and received the parcel from their hands. "I thank you. Take your ease," he carried it back to his place and remained standing to untie it.

He picked up a sprig of deep pink rose blossom and took in its sent, his eyes somewhat dreamy. Heedless of decorum, he tucked the flowers behind his ear where it bloomed like a costly ornament against his black locks. He then carefully lifted the tunic, shaking it out gently and then holding it out at shoulder height to admire the impossibly beautiful embroidery that decorated it. 

Palcë caught a gleam at the bottom hem and, squinting, saw that Míriel had embroidered one of her fallen hairs on her husband's hem. A mingled gush of jealousy and longing welled up from his stomach but he swallowed it down. Even though his brother had cut off their relationship, he felt genuinely happy that Míriel still loved Finwë. He wanted her to be happy. He even wanted Finwë's happiness, though he hoped that happiness would temper his increasing zeal for the Valar and their ideas. Still. He found it difficult to tell whether she had used a silver thread or her hair in the embroidery.

"What a kingly garment," commented one of the lords. 

"Oh, Míriel," Finwë sighed, feeling such loving awe of his wife's peerless skill with cloth and thread.  
He took the roses that lay on top of the camise and tucked those into his hair as well. When he shook out the shirt, the lords gathered at the table gasped at its fineness.

"She wove with the morning mist!" one marvelled.

"I am unworthy of this," commented Finwë, still smiling. He refolded the camise and placed it with the tunic at his side on the table.

He encountered yet more roses and kept tucking them into his hair until he had a sparse crown of pink and green, though he was heedless of how he looked.

He smiled at the trousers, showed them about and added them to the stack. When he came to the belt, he had to sit down, his wife's work stunned him and he could not stand. The happiness on his face turned to pure awe for a moment.

"I don't deserve such elegance," he whispered, touching the embroidered dewdrops to assure himself that they were not wet. The lords were speechless at such magnificence. 

One last sprig of roses, buds and leaves, one final addition to the crown he had unconsciously wrought.

He picked up the codpiece and unrolled it to examine the embroidery. His face fell a bit but love still shone in his eyes.

"What is amiss, lord?" one of the nobles inquired after a moment.

"I had hoped we had moved past this," he said, showing him the hawthorn embroidery.

"Lord?" the noble raised his eyebrows, unsure of what Finwë meant.

"It is private but I fear my lady-wife is still angry with me. I should be glad that she is no longer embroidering my garments with blackthorn blossoms. They have many more thorns, you see. I should be thankful her temper has cooled to hawthorn. Mayhap I will be worthy of thistle soon or blackberry, perhaps," he sighed. 

"I'm sorry Lord," the noble looked uncomfortable and lapsed into silence.

Finwë shrugged. "So it goes. I deserve it. And it's better than the needles I found in my codpiece and hems some time ago. He glanced over at Palcë who started in his seat. He and Indis had certainly made angry jokes about putting needles in Finwë's garments after he had cut off their relationships with him and Míriel but he had no idea that Indis had carried through with her threats. And Finwë had said nothing at all until now.

Finwë noted the look on his brother's face and made a small gesture of forgiveness. He had known all along that Palcë had not been privy to the placement of the needles.

"We shall take a small break. I shall retire to bathe and change into my new garments. I shall thank my wife properly. Meet me here after the mid-day meal."

The lords dispersed but Palcë remained seated. Finwë said nothing but lapped his new clothing in the piece of silk they had arrived in and silently turned to go. His steps were slow as if he was thinking on something other than thanking Míriel for her gift despite the barb she had put in it. As he turned, one of the sprigs of roses fell from his hair. He did not notice. Palcë pushed himself away from the table and bent to retrieve the flowers. He grasped the stem and felt a tiny sting in his thumb. 

"Brother," he caught Finwë's attention. The other man stopped. Palcë extended the sprig to him. His brother gave him a weak smile.

"You know I still regret it..."

"Don't. It's done," Palcë softly hushed him and, since Finwë made no move to accept the roses back, he tucked the stem into his brother's hair, repairing the crown.

"It is," Finwë agreed.

"'Til this afternoon," his brother bade him farewell. Finwë left the hall and made his way home to change.

After he had watched his brother retreat, Palcë examined his thumb. A fine thorn had drawn a tiny drop of blood from it. He sighed and put his thumb in his mouth and left the hall for his dwelling.

-

The door to the bower swung open, further brightening the cheery space. Niquissë, who had begun to reach for the aquamanile so that Indis might cleanse her hands for the ladies' small mid-day meal stopped and gestured towards the sunlight. Indis, continuing to hold her hands above the porcelain basin turned. "It's Finwë," she nudged her friend. Míriel quickly discarded the perfumed linen she dried her hands on and stood to go meet him. Finwë had dressed in the garments she had gifted him and, she saw how well they became him. He looked utterly handsome; he looked _kingly_. He carried something in his hands. Swifter than she moved, he crossed the room and knelt at her feet.

"I have come to thank you for your gift," he said. "I'm not worthy of such splendour but I will try to deserve all of the effort you put into these garments. His gaze up at her was at once worshipful and gently but with a fire for her well-concealed so that only she understood the look on his face. She almost felt petty for the hawthorn codpiece. 

"Please accept this in return, I think it is worthy of you." He extended a crown of lissëlotë vine and the roses she had sent with the garments. She noticed that he has used his magick to refresh the roses and they were as fragrant and lively as when she had cut them for him earlier.

Behind her, the ladies at the table cooed over the grand gesture. She didn't know what to say.

"Help me with it?"

"Of course," he stood and set the crown of white and pink blossoms on her brilliant hair.

"Queen of my heart," he whispered in her ear while pretending to rearrange her hair. 

Míriel smiled up at him and took his hand in hers. She resolved, right then, to put her thorny imagery away. He had not reproached her in all this time for her anger with him, he had only patiently allowed her to spend her wrath.

"Join us?"

"Thank you."

Another chair was brought for Finwë who sat at Míriel's left so he did not come between her and Indis. He washed his hands and reached into a basket for a pastry.

"Oh yes," he said, before biting into the sweet. Indis, my dear. I believe you left these with my mending by mistake."

Indis felt a shock run through her but kept her expression neutral.

He passed her a small package. She opened it before her, blocking all view with the tablecloth. Inside she found a pincushion in the shape of plum stuck with several needles. She blushed to the roots of her hair.  
"You are too kind," she managed.

"Perhaps," he said absently, all eyes for Míriel who sat smiling at him, her hand on his thigh beneath the table.

"So, no more bramble-patch codpieces?" he whispered in her ear, brushing back the greenery.

"No. We can still make jam, however," she whispered back archly.

That afternoon Finwë was very late returning to the Meeting Hall.


End file.
